Bloodlines
by Infinite Stupidity
Summary: Hunting down Al Asad and putting an end to a war is hard enough, right? Now imagine trying it with your daughter tagging along for the ride. Jennifer Todd is a soldier, and a bloody good one at that. When she survives the events in the Middle East, she is recruited to join Price and Soap's SAS Task Force. Following the events of Modern Warfare with my female OC - eventual OCxMacTav
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 **

When later asked why she signed herself up to the British army, Jennifer Todd would only smile in such a tired way that one only masters from being asked the same thing over and over again.

She never could answer them, and instead only smiled that smile and gave the same reasons over and over again.

"P.E. was my favourite subject is school."

No one could ever tell if she was joking or not.

Truthfully, she _was_ joking, it just took more than an outsider to realise that she had _hated_ physical education with a passion, and that she had many reasons for her current career choice. Her reasons were her own, and her sardonic answer would always do its job; whoever was asking would smile uncomfortably and give a half laugh before dropping it like a pinless grenade.

Jennifer was like that. Sure she had a few close friends, but none of them were really as close as they thought. Sure, she had hated P.E., but she was brilliant at it. Sure she thought that learning advanced algebra was a complete waste of time, but she still sat A-Level Mathematics and passed with an A. Her mother had always taught her:

"Never give up on something just because you don't like it. Life's always going to throw obstacles your way, and you can either lie down and let life go to shit around you, or you can grab it by the balls and work hard to shape it into something that shows your achievements."

Her mother was a strong woman who had calloused hands from years of difficult work and little pay. Despite her gruffness and sharp tongue, her mother had been a loving woman and had raised Jennifer and her sister as best she could with what little money she could scrape together, often working two or three jobs at once. She had passed away a couple of years ago and left her two daughters with a head full of life lessons and a meagre trust fund each. Jennifer had cried when she learned that the second job's wages had been put directly into those accounts. The rich bank manager had sneered at her and offered a pack of tissues held between a thumb and forefinger.

Jennifer's dad had never really been on the scene. She used to quiver with anticipation every time he had leave, waiting by the front door with her sister to pounce on him the moment the door opened. She loved him very much, but his duty had always come first. Jennifer was never told very much about her father's work; only that he was in the army and was out of the country a lot. She never begrudged him for it – she was desperate to leave her boring town and see the world. How could she blame her father for doing the same? She took after him in many aspects, whereas her sister took mainly after her mother.

He was always very serious, with a sarcastic sense of humour and a mouth that could turn the air blue. He was fiercely loyal, and determined to see anything through to the end. Jennifer admired him greatly.

The real reason Jennifer had joined the army wasn't because she loved P.E.; no, Jenny Todd had joined the army because she knew that it would be a hard job with a just cause. If there was one thing her mother had taught her, it was that hard work paid off. What better way to collect that payoff than to save someone's life? The feeling of knowing that she helped someone, despite the fact that she'd probably never see them again, and that she had made their life even just a little bit better.

Secretly, although she would never admit it, a part of her hoped that she might see her father more often if she followed his line of work. It was a tiny, inconceivably small part of her, but it was there noneless.

When Jennifer was deployed to the Middle East along with the rest of her squadron, she didn't know what to expect. Nothing could prepare her for the heat, or the screams, or never knowing if her meals would be her last, the feeling of helplessness at the sight of dead civilians, not being able to shake the thoughts of dead teammates that would haunt her in the night.

**[0500hrs]  
[26****th**** April 2005]**

_Sadam Hussein, the bastard dictator who has people executed regularly for saying anything that isn't propaganda, is the reason Jen is now sitting here in this "base". Her team have temporarily set up in an abandoned building, and she sits with a couple new recruits and lights up a cigarette – a terrible habit that she _swears _is all her father and his sweet smelling cigars' fault - leaning back on the wall with her rifle lying across her lap. She doesn't even give a shit if he has nuclear warheads or not. Nobody should have as much power as he does – this is exactly what happens when they get it. Iraq is hot and stuffy and dangerous, and that's just for the civilians._

"_Never ever leave your weapon lying about," She explains to the greens. She calls them green in her head, brushing off the fact that she is only 18 years old herself. "You never know when you're going to need it. My drill sergeant used to make us lap the whole base every time he found a rifle more than a foot away from someone." She lets out a short bark of laughter. "He was an old bastard, that one. Great sense of humour though," The private directly in front of her smiles a little._

"_Tell me about it. Marching on the spot for hours at a time, just because someone loses a water bottle on exercise." He shakes his head nostalgically. Her eyes glaze over a little, lost in a memory of her old squad at the Logistics Corps, when she's brought abruptly back to reality. The private sitting on her right has a gaping hole in his forehead, and his eyes roll back into his head as he begins to slump towards her. _

_The weapon must have been silenced._

"_Take cover!" She screams, grabbing the private on her left by his assault vest, not giving him time to gawk at his dead friend as she throws him behind a wall. She ignores the uncomfortably warm wetness on her cheeks and neck, knowing that the sticky red substance does little to calm the panicking private._

"_Shit shit shit shit…" She mutters under her breath, pulling her rifle up to her shoulder and ducking her head out to get a position on the enemy. Bullets fly past her head, and she's forced to pull back quickly to avoid sharing the dead private's fate. She sees what she needs to see though; in the half light of morning, the enemy's weapons light up like fireworks as they fire on her and give them away. A well placed flashbang and a few retaliating shots, and the team is in the all clear for the moment. Captain Thompson gives her an approving nod, and gathers them to move out._

"_Alright team, we need to relocate. Our position has been compromised, we need to find a safe place to set up and wait for orders. Todd, you take point. Michaels, you get on the wire and try and find out what the hell is going on. This was supposed to be friendly territory. Everyone clear?" His orders are met with a "roger that" and they head out into the warm morning air._

_It's not long before everything starts going to shit again. _

_Thompson ducks behind the overturned car she's using as cover, kneeling down to her level. She can tell by his grimace that this is not going to end well._

"_Sir, what's the situation?" He shakes his head._

"_At least twenty tangos to the north of our position and closing in. RPGs on the rooftops, more ground-mobiles on their way from the east." He sighs. "No chance of an extraction." She nods. She never thought it would end like this. She didn't know what to expect, but it wasn't this. Never this._

"_It's been an honour, sir." He grasps her proffered arm._

"_Same here, corporal, same here." He ducks out of cover and lays down some covering fire for one of the newer recruits who's been caught out in the open. As soon as Thompson needs to reload, she takes his place. The young recruit frantically tries to crawl back towards them, but one of the militia runs out from behind a nearby dumpster. He pulls the pins out of the grenades strapped to the recruit's chest before kicking him squarely in the ribs towards their car and booking it out of there. The recruit's eyes go wide and he freezes in his panic, stumbling back all the way. _

_The last thing she remembers is the ringing in her ears and the weightless feeling of her body being thrown through the air and into the side of the nearest building. _

_She wakes in a hospital bed two days later at a dilapidated medical facility, tucked in scratchy army issue blankets and bandaged head to toe. News comes to her of her squad; the nurse says nothing and holds out her hand. Four sets of dog tags jangle slightly as they fall into her outstretched palm, the topmost reading "David Thompson". She cries that night, almost as much as the night her mother died. Survivors guilt ravages her for the next few months, and rage – so much rage. Why couldn't the ground team have gotten there earlier? Why didn't they listen to the radio? Why did _she_ survive? She can't help but be angry at herself, despite the knowledge that there was nothing she could have possibly done. It takes her a long time, but she learns to lock it away in a corner of her mind – never forgotten, a mental scar that has made her harder. _

**[1430hrs]  
[08****th**** July 2011]**

The memory of her lost squad didn't leave her incapacitated with pain anymore. Instead, Jennifer used it to drive herself forward, to never let it happen again. She couldn't help but play the memory over again and again in her head as she stormed the broadcast station, M16 pressed into her right shoulder, her right pointer finger itching as she lined up another ultranationalist in her sights.

Lieutenant Vasquez gave the signal, and she squeezed her finger briefly before muttering into the comms "Tango down." with a cool indifference that five years in the force had instilled. Jennifer no longer felt a piece of her die every time she took a life. Sure, this guy was somebody's son, somebody's brother, husband, father…but they were fighting on the wrong side. They picked up that gun willingly, and they shot at her with the intent to kill. The bastards deserved no sympathy from her, just like she expected none from them. This was war. War was no place for soldiers who couldn't kill – it was the brutal truth. She still felt a surge of pain for every kill, but her trigger finger moved reflexively, as if it knew the mission.

She shot down another tango with precision and whispered into her radio "clear, move up."

Vasquez nodded in her direction and checked his corners, following the barrel of his rifle around doorframes. He let off a couple of shots before motioning the squad forward. Sergeant Griggs followed close behind and entered the room on the left, clearing the rest of the floor so that enemies couldn't sneak up behind the group as they passed. They quickly cleared the bottom floor after a run in with an RPG in which Private Jackson managed to dive on top of Jennifer and subsequently save her neck.

"Thanks," she breathed, glancing wide eyed at the scorch mark on the wall over her head. "I owe you one." He merely grinned from ear to ear and crouched behind the desk in front of them.

Jennifer made _extra_ sure from then on that Jackson didn't sustain any life threatening injuries.

When Jennifer planted the brick-like charge on the studio doors and stacked up behind Griggs, the team tensed as one with bated breath. This could end it all – the war could all end today thanks to them. It wouldn't be about the glory, it would be about stopping all this bloodshed and murder.

Vasquez tapped her once on the shoulder, and she squeezed the detonator with renewed determination. The splinters were still flying through the air amidst a cloud of smoke as three of the team stacked up barrel over barrel into the room, tensed for an immediate firefight. No such thing happened.

"God damnit!" Griggs punched a gloved fist through the nearest image of Al Asad's flickering form, driving his hand into the now exposed wiring behind the glass of the old television.

"Sir, it's a recording. Looks like he was never even here." Vasquez spared enough energy to nod at young Private Jackson to show some acknowledgement, but he scrubbed a hand over his face as he did so. Jennifer may not have been an amazing people person, but sitting on the sidelines teaches you a thing or two about reading body language. She'd noticed this mannerism often around Vasquez when something wasn't going his way – it was amusing to watch the rest of the younger (and some more seasoned) members of the team mirror his actions subconsciously as if they all thought on the same frequency their radios were set to.

"Alright, I need to radio this is. Jackson, Griggs, set up on the rooftop. Radio Todd as soon as you have any hostiles in your sights. Todd, I need you to hack into the terminal here. See if you can pull up any useful information on where Al Asad may be." Jennifer nodded her head and moved swiftly over to the control room, vaguely aware of Jackson and the Sergeant making their way back the way they came.

Spending time in the Logistics gave Jennifer a little background knowledge on hacking and electronics, something that Vasquez knew well. When at the base, bets were often placed to see who could hack into her computer after she had set up all of her own firewalls. So far, Jennifer had earned quite a bit of cash from all the sore losers, and only one other soldier had managed it – the man that had taught her everything she knew about tech.

'_Now is NOT the time to be thinking about family. Focus. You're doing it for them. Alright, basic level encryption nothing you haven't faced before. Hell you've hacked harder than this with your eyes closed, should be easy enough to –'_

"Got it! There seems to be an increase of enemy activity around this sector here, sending you the co-ordinates now. It's not hot at the moment, no friendlies in the area." Vasquez nodded and brought his hand up to his radio.

"Griggs, we're on our way out. Time to regroup at the LZ. We'll meet you outside."

"_Roger that."_

"Alright Hammer 2-6, let's go. Todd, take point." Jennifer hurried to the front of the group and they retraced their steps carefully to the foyer of the broadcast station. She motioned for them to continue, and slipped out the front door towards the short alleyway. It was relatively easy to make their way back to the LZ, where they met up with another two teams. One team seemed to have three injured soldiers, their wounds varying from scrapes where bullets had grazed their limbs, to a man who lay clutching his thigh. Blood spilled from the knife wound and started pooling around him and his comrades.

"Can't anyone do anything to stop the flow? A bloody tourniquet or anything! He's gonna bleed out pretty quick otherwise," She snapped at the nearest of the soldiers. He shot her a startled look before glancing at man on the ground.

"SHIT. Gary, c'mon, stay with me!" The man grunted in pain, and the kneeling soldier looked up at me.

"He wasn't this bad earlier! Any of you guys a medic?" Jackson stepped forward and knelt on the other side of the soldier.

"What's your name, Corporal?" The man gritted his teeth, but managed to spit out a few words.

"Gary Sanderson," he whimpered in pain as Jackson moved his hands away from the wound and exposed it. Inspecting it carefully, he nodded and tore the bottom of Sanderson's trousers off.

"Alright, Sanderson. You're going to be fine, it's quite a clean wound for it being a stab. I'll be able to patch you up until you get back to base, but it will only be temporary. You'll need a squad mate to help you back to the LZ so you don't put any pressure on the wound. You got that?" While he had been talking, Jackson had managed to wrap Sanderson's leg securely, and was now checking over his handiwork.

"Th-thanks," Sanderson nodded, panting a little as his squad mate hoisted him to his feet. Jackson smiled and returned to his own squad, lifting his rifle back into his shoulder. Jennifer wondered if he got the same sort of satisfaction she did for helping people.

"Alright, let's get the hell outta here." Jennifer continued on towards the LZ, taking down a few stragglers as they moved further out of town. It was strangely quiet out here when compared to the explosions and chaos they could still hear echoing outwards from the centre of the city. Soon, chopper blades could be heard over the faint eruptions of gunfire, and the LZ came into view.

"Alright, there it is, move up! Move up!" Jennifer could taste the sweet victory almost in her grasp; get to the helo, get there and everything would be alright, get in the air and she'd be safe, get to the chopper –

A sharp pain just below her knee had her spinning around in a full circle, driving her to the ground in agony. Jackson turned around at her desperate cry, and she felt an arm grab her waist. White hot fire coursed up and down her right leg as she was yanked onto somebody's should, one arm dangling uselessly next to her head.

_What the fuck just happened?_

"Come on, Corporal! We need to get to the chopper! You lot are coming with us, there's no room for the other helo!" The sound of Griggs strong voice brought her back around, and she blinked the tears out of her eyes. She suddenly realised that he had been the one to carry her, and heat flooded her face. Here she was, being carted about like some useless, pansy, bloody _woman_! A quick glance down at her throbbing calf let her know exactly what had happened.

Blood coated her combats and boots, material flapping outwards where the wound was. And exit wound.

"Fuck! I was _shot_?" Griggs set her down in one of the seats near where Jackson was manning the MiG and took in her wide-eyed appearance with a small chuckle.

"What, you sound so shocked, Corporal. We're in a warzone, people get shot." He smiled playfully and called Jackson off the gun as the chopper lifted off to look at her leg. She felt woozy, like she was about to be sick if she moved her head too much. Another Private quickly took his place and began shooting the enemies surrounding the LZ. Jackson kneeled at her feet and prodded the area around the gunshot wound gingerly.

"Well, you're lucky. It only glanced off the bone. It's mostly muscle damage. You should be able to walk fairly soon when we get you patched up." She hissed through her teeth when he brushed against the tender skin, and he shot her an apologetic look.

"I got fucking _shot_." She repeated the phrase in her head repeatedly, not quite understanding, like it was still trying to get through to her. The pain was dulled slightly, like it was detached from her. She knew that if she was shot then it _should_ hurt more than it did, and she knew that she was in pain but it was almost like a phantom pain. Perhaps the adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream was numbing it for her? All of these things she thought about, accompanied by a half-smile on her face as if she were amused at her own befuddlement.

"Shit, okay I think she's gone into slight shock. Todd?" She shook her head in a dazed way and bent her right leg up to inspect her wound closely. Jackson slapped her hands away and pulled her leg back down, but it was too late. The tensing had caused the wound to weep more, and blood started dripping down her leg much faster. Jennifer's skin started to take on a white hue as she steadily lost more and more blood. Apparently, tensing her calf muscle had also broken through her state of shock; she screamed loudly as all the pain she had been staving off ripped through her. A sweat broke out on her forehead, and any blood that had been left in her face quickly drained.

"Aw crap. We need to get to base. NOW. There's nothing I can do for her." Jackson gave her a hand to hold on to as tears streamed down her face, cutting pathways through the grime and dust that had accumulated from moving through the arid environment.

"Alright," Vasquez switched on the comms link to the pilot and gave him the instructions. "This is Hunter 2-6, we need to go directly to Hotel Quebec, we've got a soldier bleeding out back here. How fast can you make it, over?" He looked over at Jennifer, who seemed to be passing out, and then down to the large pool of red liquid that was dripping in between the grated flooring. He ran a hand over his face in agitation.

They had been _so close_ to just getting out of there and going after Al Asad. One injured soldier, and the whole team had been rendered useless. Not that he blamed Corporal Todd, of course, but he was disappointed. He had been itching to see this through. At least the intel Todd had managed to pull had been useful, and that made him relax a little further into his seat knowing that his team had still been important in the takedown of the dictator.

"_We can be out of the city limits in five minutes, back at base in fifteen tops, over." _

"Alright, let's hope that's fast enough. Over and out." Griggs sat across from Vasquez and grimaced at him, mirroring his expression perfectly. This wasn't the first time someone had been shot on their watch, but neither of them had ever gotten used to the soldiers reactions. Griggs still had scars himself, one on his shoulder and one on his upper right arm from bullets and a piece of thin metal debris. Each soldier would get injured at some point in their careers, and most of the older or more experienced soldiers had learned to detach themselves from seeing their friends and subordinates hurt and dying.

It happened, it was always going to happen. It was just a case of who it happened to next.

"Griggs, radio in our escort, tell her the game plan – she'll need to be kept up to date on why the hell we aren't heading the same way as everyone else." Griggs nodded his affirmative and quickly tapped in to the right channel.

"Eagle 4, this is Hunter 2-6, we're heading back to Hotel Quebec with an injured soldier and what's left of Hunter 2-2. What's your situation, over?" He released the transmit button quickly and a response came almost immediately.

"_Hunter 2-6, this is Eagle 4, copy your last, I'm on your tail, over." _Griggs glanced out the opening at the machine gun, and sure enough another helo pulled into view just behind and to the right of their own transport. He could barely see the pilot from this distance, but managed to make out a quick thumbs up which he returned. He sat back down, but felt a sudden lurch as their chopper swerved to the left.

"What the hell was that?!" Jackson shoved the private of the main gun and took it up, spinning the barrel to face behind the chopper.

"_I'm hit! I'm hit! Shit, I'm going down!" _

"It was a bloody RPG! Our escorts down, she's crashed and it looks like the militia are closing in!" Vasquez looked from Jackson, who was gunning down the enemy frantically trying to keep them away from the downed pilot, then to Todd, whose eyes had rolled back into her head. He made a decision.

"Hunter 2-5, this is Hunter 2-6, are you still in the area and what is your status, over." A faint crackling came through the radio.

"_Hunter 2-5 here, we are on your tail, minor casualties, heading back to base for refuel. We saw your escort go down, over."_

"Hunter 2-5, do you have enough fuel to pick up that pilot, over?" There was a longer pause this time, as their pilot conferred with the team leader before the radio crackled into life.

"_Landing now, over." _Jackson could see a chopper peel off from the group and head back in the direction of the flames, feeling a surge of pride. Good men, going back for one soldier. He knew that had it not been for Todd and the other injured soldiers depending on them, there would have been no hesitation in their own team's return. Vasquez probably would have gone back had there been no other option, but this way there was a chance that both the wounded soldiers and the pilot would get out alive. _No one gets left behind._

About five minutes of uninterrupted flying later had the whole team (minus Todd, who was still passed out cold) and the mobile soldiers of Hunter 2-3 gathered around the open loading hatch. Sanderson was leaning heavily against his buddy, pale faced and eyes wide.

"Holy shit."

Jackson couldn't form a coherent word let alone sentence, but he guessed if there was one thing that summed up all of his jumbled thoughts; yep that'd be it.

A huge mushroom cloud loomed over the centre of the city, rushing outwards at such a speed that nothing stood a chance. It ripped through the streets, picking up speed as the massive orange storm ravaged everything in its path.

"That's…" Griggs swallowed dryly, willing his voice to work. "That's nuclear, isn't it." It wasn't even a question so much as a statement. There really was no doubt in anyone's mind, but he wasn't sure if his voiced thought was simply to confirm the absurd notion, or if he was hoping to be proven wrong. To his dismay, a couple of the soldiers around him nodded dumbly, transfixed on the terrifying sight.

"Holy shit," the stunned man echoed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**[1645hrs]  
[08****th**** July 2011]**

For the second time in her life, Jennifer Todd awoke to the sensation of scratchy blankets, and the steady _bleep bleep bleep_ of the heartbeat monitor attached to her hand. She raised the offending article that squeezed the shit out her thumb and glared half-heartedly at it, noticing the IV stuck in the soft skin of her arm. There was a large purple bruise blossoming rather beautifully across the back of her arm where she had caught an enemy's knife arm as he tried to ambush her. She remembered freeing him of the sharp object and slitting his throat with his own knife. The thought gave her both thrills and chills – she revelled in the sick satisfaction of dealing a just revenge, but felt nauseous at the very idea of taking a life so brutally and _enjoying_ it no less.

A sudden panic gripped her, and she flashed back to five years before, to the image of a nurse dropping silver tags into her outstretched hand.

'_Please tell me they made it out, please, please, please…'_ She glanced around frantically before spotting what she needed. The call button was stiff from lack of use – soldiers know how to endure – but when she managed to shift the red plastic, a shrill ringing could be heard down the corridor from her room. A minute later, which felt like three lifetimes, a nurse came bustling through the door, eyes sharply taking in the situation. She almost glared at Jennifer when she noticed there was no blood. _Sorry for being alive, idiot._ The nurse was obviously irritated at her less than urgent situation.

"Yes, dear?" Jen bit back a retort. She probably called the men that too when they were lying in the hospital beds. Nurses did love to mollycoddle.

"Do you know what happened? Are my team alright? Did they get out?" The nurse took in Jennifer's wide, frantic gaze and her unblinking eyes, noticing how stiffly she held herself as if she were tensed and ready to spring out of the bed. She sighed.

"Well as far as I know, your 'ole team managed to make it. They were some of the lucky 'uns." Jen's brow furrowed.

"What do you mean? Did they not take out Al Asad?" The woman sighed and shook her head, bustling around the bed to tuck Jennifer in even tighter as if to distract herself.

"Please. What happened?" The nurse straightened out at the persistent tone of voice and her frown deepened.

"Don't move that leg, alright? 'Ere's the button for yer morphine, although I doubt you'll need it. I'll be back soon with someone who can explain things better, right?" Jennifer just nodded numbly as the nurse patted her arm and left. As if on cue, Jennifer's leg flared up in pain, and she almost doubled over with a cry of shock.

'_Oh right, I was shot. Forgot all about that. Dad's going to freak.'_ Jennifer reached for the morphine button eagerly, only to pull up short. She did not want to be off her face right now, no matter how persistently her leg was telling her otherwise. She needed to know what happened, which meant she needed to understand what was going on around her.

Hesitantly, she let her hand drop to the blanket and occupied the shaking appendages with picking at the loose wool threads. She couldn't remember much after Jackson patched her up on the Cobra. She had been fading in an out of consciousness the whole time. She vaguely remembered a time when she looked around her to see the whole front of the helicopter had been abandoned, and after a half aware glance around, had noticed two teams bunched together precariously on the edge of the open loading hatch. She hadn't even had time to think about it before slipping it blackness again. It seemed like forever for the nurse to return, and Jennifer found herself counting the beeps from the heart monitor – and subsequently the flares of pain that seemed to pulse in time – while waiting. It certainly helped pass the time. She had gotten to three-hundred and forty-two when the door clicked open again.

"Jen, how are you feeling?" She smiled widely at Private Jackson and motioned for him to sit. The nurse adjusted the bag feeding Jennifer blood – which she had also just noticed - and left silently.

"I'm fine, thanks to you lot. Hope you're not too banged up yourself," she teased, shifting up the bed in an attempt to get comfortable. All she got for her troubles was a twinge in her wound. Jackson looked nervous as hell as he twiddled his thumbs.

"No, we're all fine. Sanderson and the rest of Hammer 2-3 hitched a lift with us too, remember? He's next door getting stitched up. Other than that, our teams are fine." She didn't like the emphasis put on the '_our teams'_.

"And everyone else?" He sighed. She didn't beat around the bush, that one.

"There was an explosion. A bomb of some sort at Al Asad's palace." She froze. The presidential palace, the one that-

"The co-ordinates I pulled from that terminal?" Horror slid down her spine.

"Yeah. It was…fuck, Jen, it was a dirty bomb." Jackson put his face in his hands, and the coolness in her spine turned to ice. A nuclear bomb. In the middle of the city. Filled with western troops, all heading right for the centre, because that's where she told them to go.

"Nononono, that's not right. There must have been survivors! There is no WAY he would bomb all of his own troops as well! Especially not with a bloody-" she gasped the word out in a strangled voice, "nuclear bomb!" her head shook back and forth, but Jackson still did not raise his head.

"I know, it's horrible. How could anyone- well, I guess he could. Only a couple of choppers got out. If you guys hadn't gotten injured, we would have headed back into the city. We would-" he couldn't continue as the words began to fight with his brain to get out. He didn't even want to think about it, but his mouth wanted to say it.

"Guess my bad luck was a blessing in disguise. I should get shot more often." Her laugh was hollow and humourless, a weak attempt at lightening the situation. Jackson offered up a small chuckle of his own, whether it was to help lighten the heavy conversation or to make her feel he was trying he didn't know.

"How many?"

"30 000."

"_Shit._"

He didn't answer her harsh whisper. He didn't need to. What do you say to that? Thirty thousand men died not two hours before, not fifteen miles away, and they were still alive when they shouldn't be. They had cheated death, and Jackson didn't want to think about when Death would come to call in his debt.

They just sat together for the next hour or so, thinking. They were both probably thinking along the same lines, but neither bothered to ask the other where their mind was. No conversation was made, and the silence was both familiar and uncomfortable. The two were good friends, but their hearts weighed heavy in light of the news.

Jennifer couldn't help but reopen the mental scars she kept for strength and support. She thought she had managed to lock away the survivor's guilt, but there and then nothing could prevent the torrents of it flowing through the newly reopened wound. Thirty thousand men and women all dead because those were the co-ordinates – obviously a lure, now she thought back on it – that she had given to Vasquez who had then given them to HQ. _Her fault._

Their souls weighed heavily on her back, and her shoulders sagged with the invisible burden that lay across them.

_Oh, stop with the pity party! You know fine well that you had no way of knowing. Sometimes missions go south. This one went VERY bad very quickly.  
__**No! I sent them out there!  
**__No, you gave them what you thought was good intel. They decided whether or not to act on it.  
__**You feel bad about it too. I know you do. You're me.  
**__Of course I feel bad! 30 000 men! But we have to learn to let go of this. Remember what we did last time?  
__**Yeah, we used what happened as a reason to move forward.  
**__You've got it._

Jennifer felt a little better after the short inner conflict (not that she would ever admit to talking to herself, even if it _was_ only in her head) and realised she had managed to partway convince herself of her innocence. She had had enough of feeling sorry for herself after her team five years ago and didn't want to linger on the recovery stage, but she also knew it wasn't as easy as all of that.

"Hey. How are you doing?" Jackson raised tired eyes to meet her own green ones and offered a small smile.

"It's hard to take in. I'll be fine. It was such a close call though, I think I'm a little shell-shocked actually."

"Paul," she said softly, recognising the look behind his eyes. He seemed surprised by her use of his first name.

"Paul, it wasn't our fault. Even if we had gone back to help, we would've just died alongside them. We couldn't have changed anything." He nodded slowly, but she could tell it wasn't really going in. The type of guilt he was feeling was the kind that he had to work through himself. He couldn't just sit down with someone and have them tell him exactly what to do and change his mindset in a matter of minutes – it would take a long time for him to rid himself of the feeling completely. This was the only emotional territory Jenifer unfortunately knew all too well.

"Thanks, Jen. I'll think about that."

"I hope you do," she said quietly.

An alarm somewhere around the base started wailing loudly, almost like a fire alarm. Jennifer recognised this alarm a little too well though – the base was being evacuated. Jackson shot to his feet as the nurse came barrelling in and started unplugging equipment from the wall.

"Well don't just stand there, help her into the bleedin' wheelchair!" She shouted, checking over the tubes in Jennifer's arms. Jackson snapped to it, fumbling slightly as he tried to move her without jostling her leg. Jenifer had already hit the morphine button in anticipation, but it still stung like a bitch.

"The nuclear cloud's spreading, and we don't want any risk of the people left 'ere getting radiation poisoning. General Shepherd just gave the word, I've been waiting for it since you lot got back 'ere." Jackson seemed confused by the cockney accent that was thick in the nurse's voice.

"What's wrong, marine? Don't speak cockney?" Jennifer grinned at the man pushing her chair, ignoring the nurse's indignant huff. She could see Sanderson's chair being wheeled up the corridor just ahead of them.

"How you doing, Gary?" She called as they came level with the sandy haired man. He glanced over and shot them both a grin.

"Much better now I have _this_" he gestured behind him to a curvaceous nurse manning his wheelchair. "Lovely lady seeing to me!" Jen rolled her eyes at the nurse's giggle.

"And are the ladies always this keen on losing their jobs for fraternisation?" The nurse's face immediately soured at Jennifer's innocent expression, and Jackson had to cough to hide a laugh that threatened to earn him a death glare.

Sanderson only winked playfully at them with a sly grin.

"Oh, come now, I would never let a lady risk her career for me! I'm an American gentleman, after all." Jen just rolled her eyes again.

"How's the leg? Did Jackson's patch up job hold together?" He glanced up at Jackson this time with a sincerely grateful smile on his face.

"Did more than that. Thank you, I think you may have saved my life." Jackson tried not to blush under the praise, but returned the smile with a small one of his own.

"No problem."

..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..

Jennifer was met with highfives and pats on her shoulder that were manly enough to send her a couple more inches into her seat.

"Good to see you awake, Corporal," Lt. Vasquez grinned at her, but it was hollow. He was obviously hit hard by the huge loss of men. Maybe even veterans weren't totally immune to guilt.

"Yeah, yeah, enough of that. We need to take off before we fry in our own body fat. The nuclear cloud is on its way." This sobered up the mood quickly, and Jennifer was the first to be wheeled up the ramp onto the Cobra, followed by Sanderson, another soldier in a wheelchair from Sanderson's group – who had been shot in the gut by the looks of it – and then the rest of the two teams. Griggs and Vasquez were still in the same kit they had been wearing out on the mission, a testament to how long they had been in debriefing. Apparently it had been interrupted to evacuate, and they would be reconvening where ever they landed.

"Where are we touching down?" Jackson asked, rearranging one of Jen's drip bags so it wouldn't be squashed. Griggs answered him, trying to stretch his legs out without kicking anyone. It was very cramped on the helo this time.

"Hereford, England. The Brits have agreed to let us use their medical facilities, a couple of other more severe cases are being transported to Hamburg to the British and American embassies." A small smile graced Jennifer's face at the news, and she leaned her head back against the back of the chair. Jackson noticed and nudged her. She opened one eye and caught his questioning gaze, muttering one word.

"Home."

..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..

Green and yellow fields flew by underneath them as they sped towards their destination. Jennifer had been practically giddy with relief from the moment they had set eyes on the white cliffs that acted as the welcome mat of the United Kingdom. London sped by not long after that, and Jennifer could cry tears of joy at the sight of the familiar city. She had grown up there, in the east end, far away from the west enders and their money. It was a large city spanning about twenty miles along the river Thames, the people living at the other side of the settlement may as well have been in another city altogether that they were so far away.

London was soon gone, and the fields of lush vegetation and gloomy grey sky could only enhance Jen's smile.

"It's always so bloody cold here," Sanderson complained, scowling out the hatch at the ever darkening sky.

"Quit complaining, it's so much better than being sweating it out in sixty degrees all day for months on end. I don't even have a tan to show for it!" She crossed her arms in mock annoyance and returned to watching her county go by. They were moving north west of London, and it would not be long before Hereford came into view, along with the large army base that became her home not so long ago. Anticipation gripped her when she finally laid eyes on it, and it only continued to build as the Cobra made its slow descent. She heard Jackson sigh from beside her.

"I wish I was going home right now." She laid a careful hand on his and gave it a supportive squeeze.

"I think we'll all be seeing home for a while after all of this." He nodded and joined her in watching the stream of people file out of the HQ and stand along the side of the helipad. The back of the cobra opened up like a flower petal, spewing soldiers out in their rush to be on solid ground again. Jennifer was the last one to be wheeled out, and she took in a deep breath of fresh English air. It even smelled differently here. It was familiar and soothing, and she closed her eyes to savour the bite and chill of the crisp air, despite the fact that it was the middle of summer.

She opened her eyes again when she heard Vasquez speak in a strong, official tone. He was standing saluting a man in a beret. She couldn't see his face, but she recognised his stance; he favoured his left leg, his right still not quite normal after a mission gone slightly wrong almost twenty years before. Jen managed to bite her lip and stop her burst of joy from interrupting. She was back on English soil now, and if there was one thing the English were known well for, it was their rules and propriety. Stepping out of line here would certainly land her even deeper in the shit than it would out in the Middle East.

"Thank you for allowing the soldiers a place to recover. I'm sure you can understand the delicacy of the situation out there at the moment, sir." The man replied, but he was not speaking for all to hear as Vasquez was, and instead kept his voice at a conversational volume. Jennifer was too far behind to hear his voice, but she could see him shift his weight slightly as he spoke, and Vasquez was nodding. They saluted each other once more before Vasquez turned to face the rest of his soldiers.

"Alright, listen in! All able soldiers fall in here so we can get a record of your names and sort you into barracks. Move!" There was a scuffling as the remaining men and a couple of women jogged to the spot he had indicated and lined up in three rows. Jackson patted her on the shoulder and joined them.

Jen watched them for a while, counting how many were there. Sixty five not including the injured. Plus whoever was deemed "unstable" enough to be punted to Hamburg, that made not even enough for a decent sized company. She shook her head, stopping her thoughts from travelling any further. This was a happy time. She was home, and soon, she would see –

"Hello, Corporal Todd. It's been a very long time." She let a large grin creep its way on to her lips at the familiar Scottish brogue and gruff voice. She tilted her head to the side and looked to her left.

"Although," he added. "I'm sure there was more of you last time. You seem to be missing a good chunk. What happened?" He stood tall, despite the slight favour of his left leg, a neatly trimmed grey moustache keeping his upper lip warm. He still had the same warm, blue eyes she remembered, though the wrinkles around his eyes seemed a little deeper. She wondered if that was a new addition.

"Major MacMillan, it's lovely to see you," she grinned widely. "As to how I ended up like this, let's just say one of us is still young enough to be considered bullet fodder whenever the world needs someone to send in." His eyes crinkled at the corners with a smile, and he leaned down to give her a quick hug.

"You always have been too cheeky for your own good, you know that?" He chucked her on the shoulder lightly and grinned. She couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, I'm sure I get that trait from my dear old dad." He shook his head in amusement.

"Oh yeah? And I'm sure you're gonna say he learned all of that from me, then?" His eyes turned serious for a moment as he gestured to her bandaged leg. "You know he's not going be happy when he finds out about that." Jennifer shook her head, and her lips settled into a grimace that unknowingly was a perfect replica of the one on MacMillan's lips.

"Yeah, I know. I'm in the army though, and HE of all people knows what the risks are." He didn't say anything as he took up the handles behind her and started wheeling her towards the group. A moment of comfortable silence, and then-

"He worries, is all. I worry too. I know what it's like out there and so does he. I think that's what makes it even worse for us than a civilian. They have a vague picture in their head, and that's scary enough for them. Me and your dad, we've lived through it and have the scars to show for how hard a life it is." Jennifer reached behind her and patted the older man's hand in a comforting gesture.

"I learned from the best soldiers out there though, remember? I got shot, this is what happens in war. I'm not dying, and I'm not going to either. Plus, the nurse says I'll probably be able to walk again in about two weeks." She couldn't see his face, but she could imagine the frown that pulled down his eyebrows in the middle and pursed his lips firmly. He was trying to stop himself from saying something.

"Just say it," she laughed, drawing a couple of soldiers' attention from where they were lined up. A couple of them saw the pair and snapped their eyes back to the front – _don't get caught moving on parade by the fucking _Major_ of all people_ – but a couple of them just blatantly stared, open mouthed. Jennifer supposed it _was _a little uncommon for young soldiers to act like old friends with the base commander while he pushed their wheelchair around. She couldn't really blame their curiosity, but did they have to be _so_ _damn obvious about it?_

Morons.

"What? I'm not saying anything," MacMillan said defensively, his mid-Scotland brogue drawing out his vowels, and Jennifer rolled her eyes playfully.

"Exactly, you're not. But you want to. So what is it? What are you hiding?" He sighed.

"Damn. Jen, you've always been able to read me." She only smiled triumphantly in response, which quickly faltered at his next words. "You're dad called. He heard about what happened out there."

"Ah, crap. He thinks I'm dead, doesn't he."

"Yup."

She sighed heavily, guilt and exhaustion dragging on her mind suddenly. Her father thought she was dead and now she had to call him or radio him or whatever, and find the words to tell him that she was, in fact, very much alive. Just shot in the leg.

"That's not all." Jennifer let out an exasperated sigh and craned her head back to look him in the eye.

"What else could possibly happen? My own father jumped to conclusions and thinks I got fried by a nuke!" He huffed out a quick chuckle.

"Always such a way with words." She glared. "Alright, alright. He just reported in from his latest mission picking up an old Russian buddy. He said he needed to restock and refuel, so…" He trailed off nervously, and she stared at him blankly for a few moments until he saw the familiar spark of understanding light up those bright green eyes.

"NO." Her loud exclamation drew the attention of most of the soldiers gathered, and those who had already been staring only continued to do so with a keener eye now they were not the only one at risk of being caught. Jennifer did not care. There was no way, absolutely no frickin way –

"No! You tell him to turn around a go somewhere else! His friend is Russian, I'm sure he has a few mates he can crash with!" She was almost begging now. "Please, please just don't let him come here," MacMillan frowned again.

"Listen your dad is SAS. He can come here any time he likes. Anyway, shouldn't this be a good thing?" She shook her head. He just wasn't getting it.

"Listen, alright?" she lowered her voice to a frantic hiss. "If it had just been over radio or phone, I wouldn't have to tell him about the gunshot wound, or I could have just brushed it off as nothing too terrible. Now he's actually going to see it, and see how badly it's affecting my mobility. You know him better than anybody; you _know _how he's going to react." He sighed and stopped walking.

"Is it really better to lie to him?" she opened her mouth, but he held up one hand to silence her. "He's due in later today. If it's as you say it is, the wound isn't too bad and you can explain that to him. I'll catch up with you later though, I have a debriefing in fifteen minutes. Go join the others." He offered her a small smile as ways of parting, and she just sat there in her wheelchair, cheeks flaming, mouth flapping open, utterly confused and at a loss for words – feeling absolutely useless. Well fuck.

A throat cleared, and she heard Vasquez continue with the nominal role.

Jennifer managed to pick herself up and placed her hands on the wheels of her chair, angling herself so that she could pull up beside Sanderson. He nodded in greeting, and they sat in silence for a while until –

"So what's up with that? Isn't that dude, like, Major or something?" Jen forced a weak smile onto her quaking lips. _My father was on his way._

"Yeah he's a really old family friend."

"Oh." _My father is coming._

"So. What happened?" _He thinks I'm dead._

"Hmm?" She was barely listening to him, too busy panicking.

"What upset you so badly?" He looked concerned. That was nice, she liked people that openly showed their emotions.

"My dad is coming here tonight and he doesn't know I'm here. Oh, and he thinks I died about five hours ago."

"Damn, that's rough." She couldn't help the short bark of laughter that escaped at his reply.

"You have _no_ idea."

..o0(O(O)0o..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..

**[2130hrs]  
[08****th**** July 2011]  
[SAS Base of Operations, Hereford England]**

Jennifer shifted, trying to find a patch of blanket that wasn't scratchy. The army had enough money to provide the officers a full meal every night and an open bar – surely they should start funnelling some of those funds into medical equipment – such as _soft _blankets. It wasn't difficult. She groaned in annoyance and tried not to scratch the area where the nurse had inserted the IV needle.

She let her eyes sweep around the large room to distract her, pausing occasionally on the other beds. Sanderson was there, but they had placed him four beds down from her own and that was frankly too far too talk to him. She'd already tried and had received a dirty look from the nurses for her troubles.

Between them were four injured soldiers, two asleep, and two half way between consciousness and the blackness that seemed to take hold now and then. Jennifer was BORED. No magazines to pass the time, her book was in the barracks back in the now nuclear camp, and the man in the bed to her left had no interest in talking to her. He wouldn't even spare her a glance. She had been given the lowest possible dose of morphine – her own request, she wanted to be lucid – and so she didn't even have any fun hallucinations to giggle at in the mean-time.

The earlier panic at seeing her father had almost disappeared completely, instead leaving behind giddy excitement and relief. She hadn't seen her father for close to a year now, not since her last leave. She had visited him here, at Hereford. Warm relief flooded her system at the thought of seeing him again, in one piece no less. His missions were always dangerous, she understood that. He was SAS after all, they were the best of the best of the british forces. Nonetheless, she had always loathed hearing that he had been sent on yet _another_ suicide mission. He was running out lucky shots, and she dreaded the day his dog tags would make their way back to her hand. Of course, Jennifer knew her father could more than take care of himself and the rest of his team – he had trained her himself, and she knew she was more than capable only as the pupil. Imagine the teacher! It never stopped her worrying though. As MacMillan had said, knowing what really went on in a warzone didn't make it any better when you had family out there.

A flurry of movement near the door roused her from her own mind.

An empty bed was being prepared near Sanderson's bed by several nurses, although it had taken her a few minutes to notice. They were moving with an urgency that could only mean a patient was on their way at that very moment. Equipment was being wheeled up to the bedside, drips were set up, and almost as quickly, separators were being drawn around the bed.

Then she heard them.

"Come on, Nikolai! Hang in there!" the shouting was getting louder, and it was accompanied by the sound of rubber soles hitting the polished corridor in rapid succession. The doors at the bottom of the room were flung open, and two men rushed in with a third man hanging limply between them, arms flung over their shoulders. They followed the nurse's directions and disappeared almost as quickly as they had appeared behind the curtains. The man who had shouted was English, probably a Londoner, and was maybe a year or two older than Jennifer. She didn't recognise him, and his partner's face had been hidden, but she did recognise the patch on his arm and the logo it bore.

"Hey, Sanderson!" The whole ward appeared to have hushed in light of the new arrival. Jen's whisper travelled easily across the beds, and Sanderson's head snapped right to meet her gaze with a questioning look. She nodded towards the curtains, and winked.

"SAS." His eyes lit up in understanding, and he gave her an encouraging thumbs up and a grin.

..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..o0(O)0o..

**[2115hrs – 15 minutes earlier]  
[Somewhere over the English countryside]**

"Fuck! Alright Nikolai, we're almost there. Soap, get on top of that wound! Gaz help him out!" The newest recruit to his taskforce nodded sharply and slid to the floor by the Russian.

"Price, what the hell happened? He was fine a minute ago!" Gaz looked up from the med kit and shot his captain an angry glance. He wasn't angry with his superior, of course, but the annoyance and worry had manifested into anger that needed to be directed. The whole team had been on a short fuse the minute they had lifted off from that hillside. Price merely ground the stub of his cigar between his teeth and chose not to answer, instead holding down the transmit button on his radio.

"Baseplate, this is Price. We are moving in on your position, ETA five minutes. Requesting medical staff on standby, ready for immediate assistance, over." The radio crackled quietly until a thick Scottish brogue that Price recognised well took over the channel.

"Price, this is Baseplate, we read you loud and clear. The medical team are moving as we speak. Hate to tell you this, but you're in for a bit of a shock when you get here, Price." Price only rubbed his left eyebrow in agitation. The last thing he could deal with right then was yet _another_ surprise – whether it was a nice one or not. Dropping all formalities, his voice had risen to a half shout in his annoyance.

"I am sick and tired of surprises today, Mac! Just make sure the bloody medical team are ready!" He let an angry breath hiss between his teeth as he pulled out another cigar and looked down upon his pilot.

"Come on Nikolai, I'm not losing anyone else today." With nothing to do, Price's mind quickly wandered back to earlier that day – somewhere he really did not want to be.

"_Price. I've got some bad news."  
"Al Asad escaped?" MacMillan's voice was hesitant when he replied.  
"Yes, but that's not what I need to tell you." He cleared his throat a little, and Price gripped the phone tighter, flexing his hand slightly.  
"What's happened?"  
"The combined forces stormed his palace an hour ago. He wasn't there – it was a trap. He lured all those soldiers in and set off a nuclear bomb in the middle of the city." MacMillan's tone was careful and rough, but Price could barely hear it through the ringing in his ears.  
"That's where…" He murmured quietly. "James, was she there?"  
"Well, I'm not saying-"  
"NO! Tell me right now! Was. She. There?" Price's voice was a sharp bark, his urgency melting any patience that he may have possessed for his old mentor. The sorrow in MacMillan's voice was no longer well hidden.  
"I'm sorry, Price. All the records say she was part of the ground team. There were sur-"  
No, no, no, NO! The phone in his hand smashed against the opposite wall of the barn, cutting off whatever his old friend had been about to say. Rage consumed him, and he struggled to stop his hands shaking as they reached for his M1911. He loaded a clip and steadied the weapon carefully, feeling all the better for the familiar weight in his hand. He took a few deep breaths, allowing his gun arm to relax even further as he lined up the plastic debris in his sights._

_Unloading a whole clip of ammo into a broken phone does wonders for grief, apparently. The sounds of gunfire had drawn the rest of his team, and Soap appeared at the doorway, M16 raised and ready.  
_

"_Price?"_

_The sight of his Captain standing over the shattered remains of a mobile telephone, chest heaving and eyes wild was probably one of the strangest things Soap had encountered since joining the task force two days before. That is why he stepped forward carefully and placed a hand on the older man's shoulder in an attempt at calming him.  
"What's going on?" The Captain looked at him, fire blazing in his green eyes despite the cool, expressionless mask that had settled over his face.  
"Nothing. We have to go, Kamarov's waiting and Nikolai could be dead any minute - we take care of our friends." Soap lingered for a minute, then nodded and let his superior pass him out the door. He did not spare the destruction another glance as he followed him._

Price had definitely been angry, Soap observed as he had watched the man take out several ultranationalists with a knife alone. His kills had been vicious, and only continued to increase in violence as they worked their way towards Nikolai. Kamarov had proved to be a manipulative bastard, ad Price had quickly got the information that should have been offered up in the first place. Soap wasn't sure if his methods were a scare tactic, or if he really would have flipped the Rebel leader over the side on the cliff. Just as he thought he was beginning to understand his Captain, he went off his head and began acting unpredictable and bloody dangerous.

Nikolai had been injured when the chopper had crashed, but apparently the adrenaline pumping through his veins had left him unaware of the fact. The running and diving about fields had only served to tear open his wounds further, which had resulted in him rolling around the bottom of a chopper while Soap attempted to restrain him as Gaz patched him up.

"Alright lads, listen in. That bastard Al Asad managed to escape and go underground. As soon as we get Nikolai fit for duty, we're going after him." Price flicked yet another cigar out into the cool night air as he saw the floodlights of the base draw nearer.

"I thought they had him, sir?" He shook his head and faced Gaz.

"He set off a nuclear warhead. 30 000 good men, and…and women. Killed 'em all." His hand curled into a fist, and he placed it behind his back. Soap had already seen him lose control that day, and he had to focus. No matter what happened, there was always the mission. The mission came first.

"Disapeared, you say? Well, my friend," Nikolai grinned, although it looked more like a grimace as he grunted in pain. "I've heard tell of a safe house in Azerbaijan that belongs to him." He coughed, and blood dusted his lips.

"Then we're going to smoke the bastard. But first things first: you need to lie back and not speak. We're here, just hold on mate." Soap and Gaz managed to lift Nikolai between them, each grabbing an arm and ducking under it. They practically ran from the helicopter, closely followed by Price, and were met by two field doctors. They took one look at the injured pilot and gestured for the follow quickly.

Halfway down the corridor, his head started to droop to his chest. Soap slapped his cheeks a couple of times and picked up the pace while a medic grabbed Price's arm.

"Come on, Nikolai! Hang on!"

The doctor went through various questions about how he had sustained the injury, and Price calmly explained while handing over Nikolai's tags. Nikolai would be fine – it was mostly superficial, but the blood loss was taking its toll on the man. He watched them disappear into a door on the right and made to follow them before the doctor stopped him again.

"Just to let you know, the infirmary is rather full at the moment, what with all the injured that were pulled from action earlier today. You won't have complete privacy, but we've done what we can." Price thanked the medic with a gruff pat on the shoulder and pushed past him. A quick glance around the room showed that eight out of ten beds were occupied, and curtains have been drawn around the bed nearest the door. Price did not spare another second as he made a beeline for Nikolai's bedside. He had just cleared the curtains and was looking on to Soap and Gaz lifting him bodily onto the bed when he heard a faint voice.

"Captain?" Price shook his head and grabbed one of Nikolai's legs. The voice had been distinctly female, but other than that, it had been too quiet for him to catch any other details. The doctors had taken Soap and Gaz's place when he heard it again.

"Captain Price?" this time, the voice was louder. It was such a sweet, musical voice, but strong and rough at the same time. It was like music to his ears. His eyes met Soap's, and he could only imagine the expression that crossed his own face. _She's dead, Price. You're hearing things._ As she called again, Soap glanced at the dividers and inclined his head, before giving his a questioning look.

"Aren't you going to answer?" He asked. Price's mouth promptly fell open.

"She's…you…you can _hear_ her?" He nodded in puzzlement. Price felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs. He staggered to the nearest divider and gripped it painfully tightly in his hand. One look wouldn't hurt, if Soap could hear her then surely she was there?  
But then…what if it wasn't her? What if he had simply mistaken her voice for someone else?

"Price, what's going on?" he waved away the hand that reached for him – probably Gaz – and set his jaw. His eyebrows lowered into a thick line over his eyes, shadowing his face. _It's now or never, lad._

"Take care of Nikolai." And with that, he slid the screen to the side and scanned the room carefully. Bed after bed after bed, and nowhere to be found, but – there. Right there. Her face lit up in a wide smile as she took in his expression. Pure amazement, and a more than a little joy.

"Captain," she said with a slight incline of her head. His breath left him in a long whoosh – he hadn't even realised that he'd been holding it – and an exhausted chuckled escaped his lips.

"Captain? Luv, if ever there was a time that SOP didn't matter, I think it would be now." She rolled her eyes.

"Oh alright. Hello, dad."


End file.
